The Lips Of A Corpse::
by Yami-Dagora
Summary: A oneshot drabble form the point of view of Malik Ishtar, consumed body and soul, by seemingly unrequited love of his Yami. Bit of a happysad ending.


_I wrote this a while ago, just letting out some general angst, and I found it yesterday. It wasn't originally a Marik/Malik drabble, infact, it was between a guy and a girl, but I changed it so I could put it on this site. It's a little twisted in the sense that Marik would _so _have acted differently, but that's life. Thank you._

**I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh. **

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No! Not again, this can't be happening! Why? Why me? My screams and lamentations echo through the night, begging, pleading, but no, He shoots another arrow straight into my heart. It fractures under the impact, the pain is unbearable, but it still manages to kick-start back to life. Its beating is even more erratic than before, only cyanide will slow it.

Agony, so much agony! If only a twin arrow would embed itself into _your _heart, then we'd overcome all obstacles together. Our love would be the one constant thing that would keep us going, give us a reason. Side by side, we'd show them all! Our love would prevail! If only...

There is no '_we'_, no '_us'_. The word _'together'_ should not even feature in the same sentence as a reference to you and I. _'Hopeless'_, maybe; _'wistful'_, possible; _'vain, impossible dream'_, almost certainly. You don't notice me, you don't even see me. It's like I don't even exist; I am transparent, see-through. I am nothing. Am I dead to you? I must be. Either way, you don't care. Nothings don't have feelings, Nothings don't matter, Nothings are beneath your notice. What about my wrists? Doesn't that mean anything to you? Anything at all? But then again, why should it? Who cares what you've driven me to? I don't even care; it's not like I can feel it anymore. Night after night of slicing open old wounds has ensured that. I have become immune to the pain; I've become numb. The scars on my wrists don't even compare to those on my heart. Although my skin will regenerate and heal, the marred surface of my heart will never be the same again. After taking hit after hit, it will remain the torn, bloodied mass it is now. I'd tear it right out of my chest, throw it in your face, force you to take it, but I know you'll never accept it. It's useless to you in the state that it's in. Why would you want something already broken beyond repair?

I lie awake, not letting myself dream lest I dream of you. Yet, the same way that you haunt my dreams, you plague my every waking thought. Defensively, I curl on my side, arms wrapped tightly across my chest in case another arrow flies in. I would not be able to stand that; I'd die...

Die...

Death...

Only in death will I find my salvation, as I can't find it with you.

Should I, or should I not?

Brief moments of pain, that's all it would take. What would that be compared to an entire lifetime? Nothing. It would be worth it, just to escape my present suffering. Do you see what you've done to me? I am but a ghost of my former self, but ghosts do not bleed. I may have died inside, but externally I live. I bleed in the full knowledge that you don't care. And I will prove to you that I am no ghost!

Gently, carefully, I take the razorblade from the surface of the table it glints in the faint light sent streaming in through the window by the full moon's dusky glow. The blade is flexible in my fingers, the paper thin shard of metal bending at the slightest exertion of pressure. The sharp, angled edge is deadly, inviting, stained red from numerous occasions when my options had run out and my insecurities had taken over. Crimson for every time the blackness consumed me. The time has come again; the time that I need this rectangular wisp of steel. I place it against my skin, on my wrist, but not over the vein.

I need this to feel alive.

I press the razorblade down with my index finger, dragging it across the skin. I can barely suppress a gasp of pain; razors always hurt a lot more than scissors or knives. They are much better at slicing though; one smooth movement and beads of blood seep from the cut, as thin as the blade itself. Raising my wrist to my mouth, I lick the wound clean of blood. Slowly, and with a slight sense of reverence, I twist my wrist, exposing the purplish veins where the skin is at its thinnest. This cut wouldn't supply me with a quick fix, a few moments of cherishment as the blood trickled down over my hand, reminding me with its slow, crimson currents that I was still alive. No, this cut would make me feel _dead._

_Would make me _be_ dead._

"Here goes." I whisper airily. "Goodbye."

I dig the blade straight into the vein. Letting out an involuntary gasp of pain, I tear it brutally up my arm, all the way to my elbow. My arm has been completely slit open, the vein sliced in two. I pause to admire my handiwork; the blood flows out uncontrollably in red rivulets, snaking across my naturally coffee-hued skin. I raise the blood again, but before I can plunge it back down, it hits me; what have I done?

"Fuck." I breathe. "Fuck!" I scream it this time, fresh tears starting to fall, blurring my vision. I panic as the tears begin to tint bloody red. I begin to hyperventilate.

No.

No!

I don't want to die!

The door bursts open and I see you standing there in all your blond-haired beauty. You dazzle me for a moment, but a searing pain brings back the agonizing memory of the situation. I cry out, begging you to help me. Instantly, you are at my side, cradling my head in your arms, calling my name. It seems that you knew it after all.

"No!" You say urgently. "Malik, don't die on me, you can't!"

I writhe in pain. "I don't—I don't want to die."

"You won't." You assure me repeatedly. "I won't let you."  
I scream again, knowing I'd cut too deep, knowing I'll never make it. I see tears misting your eyes, and I understand now. It's as I had always wanted, what I'd lived for, what I'd died for.

This isn't fair.

This isn't fair at all!

Why couldn't you tell me?

"Malik?"  
I hear you say my name again, through the pounding of blood rushing through my ears.  
"I love you." You whisper.

I almost choke on the crimson liquid in my mouth.

"

I-I-I-" I stutter. "I love you too, Marik."

Slowly, you lean forward, and I muster the last of my swiftly fading strength to push myself up.

When your lips finally hit mine, they hit the lips of a corpse.


End file.
